


memories of a boy once here

by adderair



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Bad Parent, Damian Wayne is Robin, Grief/Mourning, I Tried, I'm Bad At Tagging, Jason Todd Deserves Better, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Jason Todd is Robin, Lazarus Pit, Mentioned Alfred Pennyworth, Mentioned Bruce Wayne, Mentioned Dick Grayson, Mentioned Jason Todd, Mentioned Talia al Ghul, Mentioned Tim Drake, POV Damian Wayne, idc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:28:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27199849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adderair/pseuds/adderair
Summary: they dont talk about him. Damian wants to know more.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Talia al Ghul & Damian Wayne, Talia al Ghul & Jason Todd, Talia al Ghul & Jason Todd & Damian Wayne
Comments: 15
Kudos: 207





	memories of a boy once here

**Author's Note:**

> idk if you wanna know the vibe i was going for, listen to house of memories slowed with reverb :/ sorry if this sucks or comes off as someone trying to be pretentious lol. sorry its so short, i cant write for shit and im lazy. ok bye enjoy or whatever

They don't talk about him. They don't talk about the son that came after Dick and before Tim. All the knowledge about him is kept under lock and key. The only signs pointing to his existence, acknowledging that he once roamed these halls, once leapt through the air side by side a vengeful shadow is the case. Cold, dull, and sleek, it sits in the corner of the batcave, a tattered, blood soaked suit residing inside. The bright red, forest green, and mustard yellow are more of a reddish black now, stubborn hints of color peeking through the stains, the tears, and the burnt fabric. They all try to avoid it and its implications. 

The halls have been stripped of his presence. The wall that holds the yearly portraits is sun bleached, three spots of vivid color left in the wall, three blank spots, three years forcefully removed from the manor’s memories. There's tables decorating the endless halls, where the empty spaces on the table stand out like sore thumbs. Bits of peeling tape left on the fridge. Patches of wall forcefully scrubbed until the colorful handprints that once adorned them were wiped from existence. Books in the library creased and torn from little fingers running lovingly over them have been replaced with new ones, their spines unbroken and pages free from doodles and wrinkles. The couches in the library have new fabric adorning them. At the end of the hallway, there's a locked door. 

When Damian stands in the rose garden, he can see the window, also boarded up. He can just barely see a bit of what appears to be a mattress residing on the roof. He notices everything else. He notices the halls scrubbed of his memory, the silence that once was full of laughter. The scuffed chair they keep in the storage, the gouges in the dining room table that have been unsuccessfully sanded out, and the battered pictures Father still finds stashed through the house. Damian sees the way fathers face falls, then hardens, watches the way he takes them and rips them to shreds in the trash, denying everyone who resides in the manor of memories. When Tim came, Father had gone through the house with a vengeance, sanding and scrubbing and stashing, and burning. Purging his existence from prying eyes.

Sometimes Damian will stand in front of the door at the end of the hall. It's nothing special, nondescript, with scratches and dents light adorning the dark wood of the door. A patch of wood, lighter than the rest where the varnish came off with the j that adorned it.  
Damian can't help the curiosity. Is the boy who’s been stripped from these halls the same as the one who held him when he was small, lips forming words in a language Damian didn’t yet understand, the same as the arms that wrapped him up in their warmth and their spice the same? How did the fuzzy memories of his akhi correlate with the stench of gunpowder, and whiskey, and cutting smiles, vicious green eyes and words that cut deep into his skin? 

Mother used to call him habibi. Now she calls him hood, a sneer in her voice, the honey and saffron in her smile turned to blood and spice. The same applies to him. Jason. Akhi. his warm, coiling hugs that swept Damian up with the speed and grace of a panther turned to reckless rage, all patience vanished in place of a bull with horns made of knives, that cut and slashed, and made you bleed and hurt. Pure strength and rage and reckless abandon in the way he fought, wreathed in gunpowder and smoke.  
Damian knows he shouldn't dig around, knows that the truth is buried just under the surface, knows that as soon as he starts digging its going to blow up in his face, but he still climbs the steps leading to the attic, still brushes the cobwebs from his face, still coughs the dust from his lungs as he rips his fingers into the taped up boxes, spreads the memories on the ground before him. Stares into bright smiles, and crushing hugs, and kisses pressed to rosy cheeks, sticky fingers waving in the air, snowballs and peals of laughter, flour spread across the counter and sugary grins, tied up thugs and busted knuckles, rolled eyes and stuffy galas. 

Smirking faces and exasperated grins haunt him as he carefully replaces them in the box, as he replaces the tape and creeps back down the attic stairs. He passes by the door, steps over the replaced patches of carpet, the plastered spots in the wall, and slips into his own room. Curls up, and dreams of a familiar face. Of, muscled, warm arms pulling him tight to his chest, scarred hands running through his hair, and lazarus eyes watching him with a lazy grin, whispers of “Goodnight, Dami.” whispered against his forehead. He dreams of the brother he was denied. He dreams of the brother he once had.

**Author's Note:**

> i pretty much shat this out at 7;30 pm on a saturday night when i had homework due but whatever. lemme know what you think i guess. sorry about errors or misspellings, i dont care.


End file.
